Vocals aren't often a strong suit for jam bands, but Spafford doesn't have that problem. Fairless did a fine job as lead singer, but his vocals aren't any stronger than those of Moss or Johnson, who both took impressive turns on the mic. This collective strength puts them ahead of the game in the jam scene.

The most fun, however, easily came from Moss's creative guitar noodling and Johnson's plinky solos.

Like a young Twiddle or Umphrey's Magee, Spafford doesn't shy away from any genre, whether it's jazz or reggae. The first Moss solo showed off Spanish influences and fingerpicking rather than a traditional deep dive into the space where rock meets funk. It was unexpected, even romantic, and a welcome preview for more jammy world styles to come.

Johnson rotated speedily around his little fort, with keyboards forming neat walls around him. His patience and slow groove-building allowed Moss to unleash extra-turbulent jams on the front lines. (Johnson also had a thrilling selection of effects at his disposal and seemed to enjoy taking the set into electronic territory.)

Trying to follow or dance along to one of Moss's complex strains is like picking up a single oily noodle with chopsticks. You can't hang on to those slippery notes and they're gone before you can sink your teeth in. But fans know it's better to pick up the bowl and gulp it all down whole.

Moss watched the crowd intensely during his spotlight moments, and nodded encouragingly when his patterns caused an outbreak of fist pumps.

The crowd responded with loud satisfaction. Whoops and hollers rang out often, mostly from the middle and back. The front of the crowd stood more still, perhaps transfixed, while hanging onto the stage barrier.

The Spafford crowd skewed notably male, most apparent by the long lines for the men's room upstairs, which filled the hallway and sometimes crept down the stairs.

"This never happens," I said, while waiting for the ladies' room behind just two people.

Jam bands are not for everyone, which readers and commenters often remind us on reviews of Umph, Holly Bowling or moe.

It's understandable. My early memories of seeing jam bands live mostly amounted to disappointment and confusion at the long-winded lack of lyrics. Only after a few shows did I come to appreciate the therapeutic nature of jam music.

Fairless and Moss often played technically simple strains over and over, repeating them at different speeds until it feels like either they or we are going insane. That's when Laforest rescues everyone with a crashing segue.

These oscillating moments of tension and relief make for an excellent cure at the end of a stressful work week. For the concertgoers who left the Westcott feeling buoyant and clearheaded, Spafford delivered more proof that music is the medicine of the mind.